


Fine

by suburbanmotel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Depression, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Reckless Behavior, Suicidal Ideation, Therapy, True Love, lack of self preservation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 08:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18752671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/pseuds/suburbanmotel
Summary: Supernatural entities. Grievous bodily harm. Massive blood loss. Risking life and limb for others. Ongoing existential angst and questioning the very meaning of existence.In other words, just another ordinary day for Derek.It’s fine.





	Fine

**Author's Note:**

> And now for something completely darker. But with hope, and a hopeful ending, always. Because that’s how I roll.

//

 

The greatest fear that beings experience is not death, which is inevitable, but consideration of the distinct possibility of living a worthless life.  
_~ Kilroy J. Oldster, Dead Toad Scrolls_

 

//

 

Lately, some days Derek feels like crying uncontrollably, but if someone asked him why — which they don’t — he wouldn’t be able to say, exactly. Some days he’s so angry at everything and nothing at all that he puts a fist through the wall, more than once. Some days he runs because his bones grate and his skin burns and the wind and the woods make everything feel a bit better for a little while. Some days the edge of a cliff looks more enticing than it should and some days he lies in bed for 27 hours and stares at the ceiling the walls the floor and feels nothing at all.

Those are the days that worry him the most.

 

//

 

The moon is full, the witches are laughing and the blood is flowing. Derek’s blood, to be exact, which is nothing new. What _is_ new is that he doesn’t care. Doesn’t _seem_ to care at all, at least to those who are paying attention.

It’s October, so it’s a witchy, bewitched month to begin with, and weird shit just keeps happening, catching them all off guard more than usual, even. Derek’s sleep patterns are always slightly off kilter, even on good days, but October — especially an October with a full moon — just messes him all up, messes with his head, his dreams, his mind. They’re out, all of them, all of the wolves, running and running, and Derek feels alive for the first time in months and months, not thinking about anything at all and it’s glorious. The wind in his fur and the moonlight on his back. Scott’s there, and Isaac and Boyd and Erica, too, he can feel them close, sometimes nipping at his heels, sometimes racing ahead and then falling back again. It’s the closest to actual happiness that he gets these days, these tiny veins of joy swirling under his skin, through his blood, right down to the bone. He wonders, vaguely, if he could just stay like this, all the time, wolfed out and running running running. Leave everything else far behind, just run until he reaches the edge of the world.

But it’s Derek, so even these small bites of happiness are generally snatched away before he can fully digest them.

The laughing witch comes out of nowhere and there’s a dagger slicing through the air, slicing into his side before he even registers her presence and he falls like a stone, skidding across dirt and rocks and roots, his own breath loud and labored in his sensitive ears. Of course, he thinks. Of course. Of course he couldn’t have this, this one thing, this night, this _one goddamn thing_ that brings him a tiny bit of joy. Of fucking course. His pack howls, one after another, and they move close — except for Boyd, who gives chase — and they sniff at him before shifting back, standing near him, wondering if they should touch or not.

“Where did she even come from?” This is Erica, panicked and small.

“I have no clue!” Scott, because he never knows anything.

“Do we pull the knife out? Leave it in?” Isaac never wants to hurt him, hurt anyone, and Derek feels a sudden surge of affection for him.

“We have to get him back to the house, fast. He’s losing too much blood and it’s not healing.” Boyd has reappeared, uncharacteristically out of breath and without a dead witch to show for it. He says this just as another voice breaks in, and Derek allows himself to close his eyes, let a small tendril of warmth unfurl in his stomach.

Stiles. Of course.

Stiles is yelling his name, his voice tinged with anxiety and horror. He sounds panicked and on the verge of hyperventilation. Derek lies in a puddle of his own blood on the forest floor, his pack naked and whining around him, miles from home.

Where the fuck did _Stiles_ come from?

Derek lies there panting, letting his blood run and the moon beat down and Stiles’ frantic hands move through his sodden fur, shaking and cold. He pulls the dagger from Derek’s flesh, slowly, carefully, hissing between his teeth as Derek growls low and twitches.

“You need to shift back, Derek,” Stiles says, voice low and right next to his ear. “Shift back. I can’t help you like this. Why isn’t he shifting?” He says this to Scott, who has no answer. Derek also has no answer because he’s incapable of speaking, and even if he could, he wouldn’t really be able to explain. They’re all standing there watching him, waiting for him to shift. Derek doesn’t want to shift. He just wants to rest. He’s tired, he’s beyond tired. And what’s the point, anyway? He shifts back, he heals, he goes home, he showers, he goes to bed, he sleeps, alone, wakes in the morning and starts the cycle all over again.

“How did you even find us?” Scott asks as Stiles continues poking and prodding at Derek. The dagger is lying in the dirt beside them, glinting in the moonlight, but the blood continues to gush. Poison, Derek thinks. That’s why it’s not healing. Of course.

“I’ve been tracking you for hours. I knew the witches were coming,” Stiles says this to Scott, who seems to have asked the same question _Why are you here?_ “I tried to get here as fast as possible. I thought. I thought I’d have more _time_.” His voice cracks at the end as his hands push down on the wound.

Ah, right, Derek thinks, somewhere, hazily, in his wolfen mind. Stiles is here because he’s _Stiles_ and he sees things. He knows things, things that no one else knows or sees. Then, he fixes things, in that way he has. Normally Derek is quietly proud and amazed by Stiles’ weird remarkable skills. He’s watched him do this for years and it never ceases to thrill him. But.

He’s just so very tired.

“Derek,” Stiles is pleading now, Derek can hear it in his voice, grating in his highly sensitive werewolf ears. He’s desperate. He sounds close to tears. The blood keeps flowing. “I know you can hear me, asshole. What are you _doing_?”

Why, Derek wonders, why. Why does Stiles sound like that?

Stiles’ long clever fingers curl into Derek’s matted fur and down further, his skin. It kind of hurts, if he’s honest. Not as much as a dagger sticking out of his gut, but it’s a distraction.

“Derek.” The name breaks on a sob. “Please.”

Derek takes a deep gurgling breath and shifts back. Now he’s lying naked and bloody on the forest floor, panting and gasping while Stiles’ hands move up and down over his skin. It feels good, in a painful sort of way. Derek closes his eyes and imagines, just for a. moment, that they’re somewhere else, just the two of them, in his bed, perhaps, and it’s warm and safe and soft and he’s not dying.

 

//

 

Derek is curled up on his side, bandaged and exhausted when Stiles slides into his room. Derek can feel his anxiety reverberating off him, filling the space between them.

“Why did you take so long?” Stiles says in the darkness of the room. He doesn’t say _hi_ or _how are you feeling_ or _fucking witches, huh?_ and it catches Derek a bit off guard.

“What?” He knows what and knows Stiles would have noticed right away, of course. He sighs.

“To shift back. So I could help you. I know you could hear me.” Stiles’ hands are clasped tightly in front of him. “You just purposely waited. You could have been. You could have.”

Derek sighs again. “I had a knife sticking out of me. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

But Stiles is already shaking his head. “No. You’ve been hurt like that before. You’ve never taken that long. It’s like. It’s almost like.” He shakes his head again.

“Like what?”

“Like you didn’t _want_ to.” Stiles looks at him. “But I don’t know why.”

“It’s not a big deal, Stiles.”

“Not a big deal.” Stiles snorts. He’s angry. “ _Not a big deal._ ” He purses his lips and looks away. “Sometimes I really can’t figure you out.”

“Sometimes?” Derek says, fighting hard to keep his voice from shaking and he’s grateful Stiles can’t hear the thuddering stuttering flutter of his heart underneath it all. “I’m not some big mystery for you to solve.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Stiles finally moves closer, one hand hovering over Derek’s wound which is slowly knitting itself back together, much more slowly than it should, despite Stiles’ careful healing ministrations. “I’m _saying_ —”

“Stiles.” Derek cuts him off. He hopes he sounds more authoritative than he feels. He makes sure Stiles is looking right at him when he speaks next, and he puts a tiny, tight little smile on his face. It hurts.

“I’m _fine_.”

 

//

 

If there is meaning in life at all, then there must be meaning in suffering.  
_~ Viktor Frankl_

 

//

 

The morning after stretches thin and snaps into afternoon then evening and Derek doesn’t move. His limbs feel heavy and sodden, anchored to the sheets and mattress beneath him. There is nothing in the world, he thinks, that is worth leaving this bed for.

He sleeps.

He sleeps and sleeps and doesn’t get out of bed for three days after the attack.

Boyd and Erica bring him _soup and tea_ and _buttered toast_. Isaac offers to wash his car. Scott perches on the end of his bed and chatters about school and pack meetings and tactics to dispose of the fucking witches — most of which are Stiles’ suggestions, he’s sure — while Derek lies on his side, hands pressed to the wound that no longer exists but he swear still hurts. Everyone is tense and nervous, laughter is tight and voices are too high, tentative and questioning. He can hear them in the house below, speculating and arguing in whispered hushed voices. They think they’re being covert. Derek pulls two pillows over his head but he can’t escape.

_What’s wrong with him?_

_He should be healed by now._

_He_ is _healed. Physically at least. It’s the mental healing I’m worried about._

 _What? You think he’s having some sort of_ breakdown?

_I don’t know! You’ve seen him. Maybe he’s just freaked out or something._

_Derek doesn’t get “freaked out.” He’s like a werewolf robot or something._

Derek closes his eyes and lets their voices wash over him, trying very hard to not care about any of it. Then he sleeps. He sleeps a lot during the day and at night he lies awake for hours. He lies awake and stares at the ceiling or out the window, which needs washing, but the very thought of summoning enough energy and desire to _wash fucking windows_ is so exhausting he falls asleep again.

When he _is_ awake every horrible thing he’s ever done plays like a B-movie horror film in his brain, flickering behind his eyelids, every bad decision, every person he’s ever hurt or have hurt him in any way. Kate, his family, his pack. His guilt. His waste of a life.

He remembers things that he wishes he’d long forgotten, hurtful things, taunts, jabs, comments he’d pretended to shrug off but instead cut deep as a witch’s dagger and were just as poisonous.

 _Nobody likes you and you’re a horrible Alpha,_ Scott had yelled once, not that long ago, after a heated argument, like a petulant child on the school playground. Derek has just laughed because he already fucking knew that? Later, Stiles had moved close to let his fingers briefly cup Derek’s elbow and murmured, _You know that’s not true right. What Scott said? It’s_ not.

 _It’s fine, Stiles_ , he had said. And the lie tasted like ashes in his mouth

He remembers the last things his parents ever said to him (Mom: I love you, sweetheart. Have a good day. Dad: Don’t forget to take out the trash before school.) He remembers the last time he hugged Laura (The Christmas before she disappeared for good). He remembers calling his youngest cousin a brat the day before he burned to death. He remembers—

The door slams open and hits the wall behind it with a thwack. Derek doesn’t even flinch. He’d listened to Stiles’ fluctuating heartbeat for a full 15 minutes as he debated coming in.

“Whoa,” Stiles says, stopping short at the threshold and wrinkling his nose. Derek knows it stinks in here, but he’s grown used to it: stale, sweaty, thick with despair. Familiar. He stands still in the doorway, face impassive. No, not quite impassive. Just beneath the surface, there’s a rippling anxiety, a question that Derek still hasn’t answered.

“It stinks in here,” he says.

“Hi to you too.” Derek rolls onto his back hand against the soiled bandage on his side.

“Hi Derek. It stinks in here.”

“Ok?”

Stiles comes closer, hands balled in fists at his sides. “We need to change your sheets and we need to change your bandage.”

Derek shrugs like he just doesn’t care. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Stiles breathe in and out slowly, like he’s trying to contain himself. Refrain himself.

“Ok.” Stiles reaches down and wraps large, warm hands around Derek’s shoulders and tugs him up, gently but firmly. Derek winces but it doesn’t hurt.

“Does it still hurt?”

No. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” Stiles kneels down and peels at the edge of the soiled bandage, pulls it back slowly, examines the completely smooth, healed skin beneath. He looks up at Derek, raises his eyebrows. He goes to the bathroom across the hall and Derek hears water running. Stiles returns with a washcloth. It’s dark blue. He wipes Derek down with it. It’s warm and rough and Stiles runs it over the place where the dagger stuck. Then he wipes Derek’s chest and arms, face and hands, shoulders and back. The cloth has gone cold by the time he’s done. “Can you stand up for a minute?” It’s not really a question.

Derek stands on slightly shaky legs. He watches as Stiles pulls the sheets and pillowcases off Derek’s bed, bundles them together and carries them out. Derek stands there in his sleep pants and looks at nothing. Stiles returns with neatly folded sheets. They’re green with tiny ferns on them. Derek has no recollection of ever buying these linens. Stiles quickly remakes the bed, smooths out the wrinkles and fluffs the pillows and Derek lies down, pulls the comforter up and rolls on his side.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.

“Derek.” Stiles is on the edge of something. Derek can hear it in the way he says just his name.

“I’m just. I’m tired, Stiles.”

Stiles watches him a beat longer than he should. He sighs and reaches out, squeezes Derek’s ankle through the blanket and nods. Ok, the touch says. Ok. He lets Derek be tired for now. But not for long.

 

//

 

On the sixth day he gets up and showers but only because Stiles and Erica make him. He stands, head bowed, resigned under the punishing spray. He doesn’t move, makes no effort to wash or shave, just lets the water run and run until it’s cool and Stiles is knocking on the door asking him if he’s ok, if he needs help. He’s thinking, for some reason, of something _Laura_ said to him, years ago, just after the fire, when they were on the run. Nights when he’d awake from yet another terror-filled dream, his sister perched on his bed, running a soft, soothing hand up and down his sweat-soaked back. _Meaning in suffering_ , she’d say in the dark, voice low and harsh. Derek didn’t understand it at the time, but he loved the sound of her voice, the steady sweep of her hand. Meaning in suffering.

_Just. Hang. On._

“Derek,” Stiles says finally, loud and concerned. The door swings opens because Derek didn’t lock it, or pull the curtain closed, so Stiles is standing in the doorway, looking at Derek naked under the now cold spray of water, staring down at the drain. “ _Are you ok_?”

And he does it so well after all, after all these years. The suffering. He’s fucking _fantastic_ at suffering.

So, Laura, where the fuck is the _meaning_?

He turns his head a bit and glances at Stiles, who is looking at him with more than concern now. Derek smiles, tight and small.

“I’m _fine_.”

 

//

 

Hell is other people.  
_~ Sartre_

 

//

 

Lately, when he does manage to leave the house, it’s dark and after the rest of the pack have either left or long gone to bed. This is when he slips from his room and down the stairs out the door to his car. Sometimes he goes straight to the grocery store, pale and sweaty under the fluorescents, up and down the shiny aisles, filling the cart with the weekly needs of his house mates. He speaks to no one and makes no eye contact. He loads the groceries into the trunk, rests his forehead on the steering wheel briefly, swallowing and swallowing. Then he turns the keys and heads home.

Some nights he drives, if he’s not too tired, headlights slicing through the winter darkness, using his own highly honed sense of direction to drive and drive on unfamiliar back roads and always finding his way back home.

He eats with the pack sometimes, but mostly he takes his food up to his room and eats alone, or doesn’t eat at all, pushing the food around on the plate with his fork until it grows cold and then he figures, well what’s the point now?

He knows the pack is worried. He sees it in Erica’s pinched brows and Boyd’s flat, penetrating stare, in Isaac’s twisted fingers and anxious breath. Even Scott glances at him when he thinks Derek’s not looking, and when he speaks to him, his voice is gentler than Derek has ever heard. And Stiles.

Well, _Stiles_. Stiles is fucking annoying, is what he is, because he knows things. He sees things, like he always has. But this time it’s different. He’s hovering. He’s watching. He pays attention to everything and misses nothing. And he won’t stop asking questions.

“Yes, I ate, Stiles. Earlier. No, you didn’t see me eat because you weren’t here.”

“Yes, I’m drinking water, Stiles. I don’t know if it’s eight glasses a day, Jesus. Who counts shit like that?”

“No, Stiles. I’m not sick. Werewolves don’t get sick, remember?”

“Yes, Stiles. I’m sleeping. I look tired because you make me tired.”

“Yes, Stiles. I’m exercising. I’m about to chase you right out of his house, actually. Get ready.”

“Leave it alone, Stiles.”

“ _Stiles._ ”

Please.

“I’m _fine_ , Stiles.”

 

//

 

Plato says that the unexamined life is not worth living. But what if the examined life turns out to be a clunker as well?  
_~ Kurt Vonnegut_

 

//

 

He knows there are things he should be doing, daily, mundane responsibilities, general house maintenance, checking in on his pack. Is Isaac even going to school anymore? His car is 5,000km past due for an oil change and he knows the front tires are almost bald. He’s cancelled two appointments at the bank about house insurance updates. There are 14 missed calls on his phone and who knows how many voicemails because he’s too scared to check. He _knows_ these things could all be resolved quickly if he just _fucking got off his ass and did them_ but when he thinks about actually doing any of these things his heart starts to race and his throat closes up and his scalp sweats and lies back down and pulls his covers up and sleeps.

 

//

But lately, when he does sleep, he dreams. And when he dreams, he dreams he’s falling and falling and sometimes he hits bottom before he wakes and sits up with a jolt, a tangled mess, heart thumping and he’s sure he’s dead because doesn’t that kind of dream mean you’re actually dead? He dreams of staircases with no end in sight up or down. He dreams of his teeth falling out into his cupped hands, blood dripping down his chin and hitting the floor at his feet in dime-sized drops. Vines sprout from the ground, rising and twining around his legs, up to his arms, his throat, paralyzing him. He dreams of fire. He dreams of water. He dreams he’s drowning he dreams everyone he loves is dead. He dreams _Stiles_ is dead.

As he lies sweating in the dark, trying to envision a world without Stiles in it, his phone pings on the bedside table, bright rectangular light and gentle vibration.

Stiles: You ok?

Derek stares at the text, uncomprehending. It’s 2:47am and he’s having a panic attack over a dream about Dead Stiles and Alive Stiles has just randomly decided to check in on him.

Except it’s not random at all, is it. He considers not replying but it’s never that easy with this boy, because now his phone is _ringing_ , insistent, loud, impossible to ignore, like the caller himself.

“Oh. You _are_ awake.” Stiles’ voice is loud and tinny. He sounds hyped up on something, caffeine or research or life.

“Why did you call if you thought I might be sleeping?”

“Oh.” Stiles laughs. “Yeah. I guess I figured you weren’t. Sleeping.” He pauses. “I just had this feeling? You know, like I do. That something was…off.”

“Uh huh.” Derek scrubs a shaky hand over his face. He keeps his eyes closed and tries to fight his way back to reality. “I just had a bad dream.” He says this before he even realizes he’s going to, because it’s Stiles, who has sensed something and actually taken the time to check in on him the middle of the night.

Stiles makes a noise of affirmation and commiseration. “Did you want to…” He trails off.

“ _No._ ” Derek huffs out a laugh. “God, no.”

“Ok.” Stiles is eating something, something crunchy, right against the receiver, and this would usually drive Derek slightly around the bend, but at the moment it’s inordinately soothing. Stiles is alive, and he’s in his room on the other side of town, and he’s eating chips or some shit at 3 in the morning while making sure the local grumpy werewolf is all right. Derek smiles.

Stiles starts rambling about something then, some research he’s doing about the witches that might be useless at this point because no one has seen anything since the October attack, but it gives him something to do and Derek turns on his side and just listens and makes quiet noises so Stiles knows he’s still awake.

He opens his eyes and it’s dark, so dark even he has trouble making out shapes in the room. He thinks about the dream, which is slowly fading. He thinks about how scared he was, and he can’t remember the last time a dream has shaken him like this, how he was running through a house and he could hear Stiles’ voice but he couldn’t find him and every room looked the same and in the last room he found him, sprawled on the floor and he was cold and limp and when Derek knelt and picked him up he was—

“Derek?” Stiles’ very much not dead voice picks at his ear. Derek realizes he has said his name more than once. “You asleep?”

“No. No.” Derek pushes the phone closer, pushes _Stiles_ closer. “No. Keep talking, ok?”

He can hear Stiles breathing. “Derek,” he says, much quieter. “Are you ok?”

Derek breathes in and out, in and out, pushes the phone to his head as hard as he can.

_No._

“I’m fine.”

 

//

 

The next pack meeting is held at Scott’s house. This never happens. Derek suspects it’s a ploy to get him out of _his_ house but no one actually says this and he doesn’t bring it up because he actually doesn’t want to know. He considers fighting it, claiming illness or headache and just crawling back into bed, but they’re all looking at him expectantly, hopefully, and he sighs and runs a hand through his slightly greasy hair and nods and goes to change from dirty clothes to slightly less dirty clothes.

Scott _claps him on the back_ when he walks in and Derek shows great restraint by not smacking him as hard as he can. Instead he smiles and accepts a can of Coke which he does not drink.

He says a few words about strategy and sticking together and something else he can’t quite remember before handing off the meeting to Scott, who looks inordinately pleased about the turn of events. Derek takes a seat on a soft chair near the back of the room. He feels Stiles’ intense, knowing gaze on him but doesn’t make eye contact.

He fiddles with the Coke can, wiping the condensation on his jeans and not listening to Scott until he realizes he has to pee.

He puts the can down and slips from the room, up the stairs to the bathroom, pausing in front of the toilet to calm his racing pulse.

When he’s done he washes his hands and stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The lights are too bright and his skin is too pale, stretched too tight across his bones. Even he can see this. He stares and stares, hands braced on the worn laminate countertop, the stink of toothpaste and aftershave and shampoo and soap and toilet bowl cleaner filling his senses/pressing on his nerves. The shower curtain behind him is covered in moons and stars and tiny little howling wolves. A present from Allison, he thinks. Nothing Scott or Melissa would ever buy for themselves. Or, Stiles bought it, he decides. It’s totally a thing Stiles would do and this thought makes him feel both pleased and melancholy. He leans closer to the mirror, and closer still, till his nose is almost pressed against the silver, his breath fogging the surface in jagged little patches, disappearing, then reappearing. He pulls back abruptly and turns to the small, white cabinet over the toilet. He opens the door, peers inside.

Melissa is a nurse. He knows this. There are lots of bottles of pills inside, but none are expired because Melissa is a nurse. She is methodical and routinely sorts through the household medication, organizing and discarding. He stares and stares, fingers clenched in balls beside his thighs. The lights are very bright and hurt his eyes and there’s a strange high buzz in his ears which is why he doesn’t hear anyone creeping up on him. At least that’s what he tells himself.

“Hey, Derek.” Derek doesn’t turn to look because he knows who it is. He knows who has opened the door and is standing there, still and stiff and watchful, dark eyes in a sombre face. “Whatcha doin’?”

Derek turns his head slowly.

“Funny thing about humans’ medicine cabinets,” Stiles says. His tone is light, conversational, but Derek can see a panic in his eyes, barely concealed. It’s one thing Stiles has never been able to control: his goddamn concern. His arms are crossed tightly against his chest and his fingers might be trembling a tiny bit, if Derek looks hard enough. But Derek is having a hard time focusing on anything concrete at the moment. “They all pretty much look the same.”

Stiles crosses the small space between them, pushes himself up close to Derek so Derek can feel the heat from his body against his side. Stiles peers into the small cabinet and nods. “Yep. Pretty much standard fare. Tylenol, Advil, gotta have both acetaminophen and ibuprofen. Allergy medication, antihistamines, you know, in case there’s a sudden and unexplained outbreak of hives. Let’s see. Cough syrup, Metamucil. Gotta stay regular, right?” He reaches out a hand, those long, slender fingers, poking and prodding at the bottles and tubes, boxes of Band-Aids, half-used tube of Polysporin. He reaches to the back and pulls out an innocuous orange bottle. “Ah yeah. Zolpidem, otherwise known as Ambien.” He looks right at Derek. “Sleeping pills, in case you were wondering. I’m familiar with these myself.” He shakes the bottle. It’s half-full. Melissa had been taking them during a rough time when she was working the night shift, Scott had confided in Stiles at one point. Stiles stares down at them. “If a human took all these at once they’d possibly overdose and die.” He shakes it again. He’s not looking at Derek but Derek can’t stop looking at Stiles. “For someone who was, like, desperate, you know? Even though there’s no guarantee. You could, you know, puke everything up before you manage to shuffle off this mortal coil.” Stiles finally looks up and looks at Derek, eyes wide and shiny, panic a little less concealed. “But you know what else?” He places the bottle at the very back of the cabinet, fingers shaky. “They have absolutely no effect on werewolves. Good,” he shuts the little white door firmly, “or bad.” There’s a beat, and another, Stiles staring at Derek and Derek staring back. 

“Got it?” Stiles says, and his voice sounds sticky in his throat. He waits. He wants a reply, Derek realizes. Won’t be satisfied until Derek replies.

“Got it,” Derek whispers.

Stiles nods then, once, decisive, satisfied for now. He wraps cold fingers around Derek’s wrist and tugs, pulls him from the small, airless room, turning off the glare of lights and shutting the door behind them.

 

//

 

Stiles drives Derek home because Everyone has decided Derek shouldn’t be left alone for extended periods of time. Or any time that involves operating a motor vehicle.

“And I’m not going to _do_ anything, you know,” Derek says. He fights to make his voice firm and authoritative. “So you can stop whatever it is you’re doing. With the watching. And the worrying.”

Stiles makes a sound in his throat but doesn’t answer.

“I’m not _losing my mind_ ,” Derek says like he’s trying to convince more than just Stiles. When he looks up Stiles is looking at him, eyes quiet and thoughtful, none of the teasing jest he’s so used to seeing.

“I don’t think you are. Not in the least.”

Derek nods once, quick, and doesn’t think too hard about how much Stiles’ affirmation means to him.

“I do think you’re depressed, though.”

Derek looks at him.

“What?”

“It’s just a thought.” Stiles shrugs a bit like he’s just come up with this but Derek knows Stiles. He knows he’s been thinking this for a long time, formulating and investigating, poring over websites and medical journals.

“I’m not _depressed_ Stiles.” Derek attempts a derisive laugh but it comes out kind of strangled and desperate. “Werewolves don’t get _depressed_.”

“They do, though. Actually. It’s more common than even I thought.” He digs in his backpack then and pulls out a sheaf of printed paper, of course he does. “I did some research.” Stiles’ hand is shaking a bit when he thrusts the papers at Derek. “Take a look, if you want. There’s some interesting stuff there. You know. In case you’re. Interested.”

Derek, against all his better judgement, takes the papers and stares at the writing like it’s in Japanese.

“Have you uh. Have you ever thought about seeing someone?”

Derek looks up, stymied. “Seeing someone? Like. A date?”

“No no.” Stiles laughs a bit. “No. I mean. Like a therapist or something.” He shrugs. “It can help. It can. To talk.”

Now Derek laughs. “No Stiles. I’ve never thought about seeing someone to talk to about anything. No. I am not depressed and I don’t need a therapist.”

Stiles sighs. “Look. I know it’s hard to think about. I get that. But.” He sighs again and looks at some point over Derek’s left shoulder. “I know what depression looks like. And I know what it feels like. After. After my mom died.” He swallows. His eyes are shiny but Derek can’t smell imminent tears. “My dad and I both just kind of fell apart for a while. I know about depression. And I know about counselling. First hand even.” He meets Derek’s gaze and smiles, small. “It really can help.”

“Werewolves don’t —”

“But they can, Derek. They. You can accept help if you need it.” He bites his lip, huffs out a breath. “If you _want_ it.”

And there’s really no reply to that, Derek thinks. He nods once, folds the packet of papers in half and shoves them into his jacket pocket. He puts his hand on the door handle and thinks about just getting out and walking into the house without a word. But then there’s Stiles, sitting there watching and worrying and researching werewolf physiology and printing out information and jotting down helpful notes in his messy scrawl and putting it in his backpack in hopes of handing it over to Derek at some point. The entire Jeep reeks of nerves and concern and hope mixed with anxiety and racing heartbeats and Derek is hard-pressed to tell what belongs to who.

He shakes his head. This _boy_.

“Thanks, Stiles,” he says quietly, then all but leaps from the Jeep and slams the door behind him so he won’t have to see or hear or smell anything else.

 

//

 

It’s the tail end of February when the goddamn witches decide to return. The pack has been lulled into a false sense of security, but have managed to retain some of the information discussed at all the meetings and hammered into them through Stiles’ incessant emails and texts, so there’s at least some semblance of organization and strategic planning in the woods. It’s a cold and raw night, snow barely off the ground and naked tree branches clawing at the black sky. The moon is a sliver of itself and even with werewolf vision, highly accurate sight is hit and miss.

Derek has managed to hone in on the Dagger Thrower from his own personal Hell Night through scent alone and she’s mighty pleased with the chase, judging by her hysterical laughter as she leads him through tangled underbrush, sharp branches scratching at his face and hands. He thinks about shifting but he’s running on absolutely zero sleep at the moment and the thought of expending that kind of energy is beyond his scope and ability. So he runs on tired and trembling human legs, keeping her in sight for so long he wonders what kind of game she’s playing.

He finds out.

It turns out she’s leading him out of the woods to the edge of the lake. Derek stops at the water’s edge, breathing too heavily, head and heart pounding, sand and rocks under his feet and sliver of moon over his head. He scans the water, sees her standing — no _hovering_ — 10 feet from shore, watching him. He can hear the pack in the woods behind him, scurries and howls of pain and some of triumph, branches breaking, spells being cast, skin splitting and healing, blood spilling. This time it’s not his, however.

But, there’s this lake. There’s this lake and this witch and it’s so dark and Derek is so tired.

“Well?” she says. She’s speaking quietly but Derek can hear her just fine. “Aren’t you coming to get me?”

Derek straightens and frowns.

“I almost killed you, Derek. Don’t you want revenge?”

Not particularly, now that he thinks about it. What he wants is a good night’s sleep. What he wants is no more nightmares. What he wants is to stop feeling like shit _all the time_.

“I’m tired,” is what he says.

“I know,” the witch says and she sounds kind of sad about it. “But this won’t take long, Derek.”

He takes a step towards her, then another. Cold water laps at his feet, his ankles, his knees. The lake is calm and smooth and peaceful under the almost-nonexistent moon.

“Come and get me.” She smiles, like they’re sharing a secret. “Then it will be over. And then you can sleep.” 

He dives under and swims and swims and swims until his arms are leaden and his legs stop kicking. It’s ok, he thinks. This is an ok way to go.

It’s _fine_.

He hears a lot of things as he starts to go under: the distant shouts of his pack, the shriek of witches, the rush of water as it fills his ears and eyes and nose. And his name.

He hears his name again just as he slips under for the last time, a kind of frantic shout ending on a scream but it’s ok. He’s just _tired_. Tired of sleeping too much and not sleeping at all, of tossing and turning, fighting and losing.

He sinks and sinks like a stone and he remembers as he sinks, another body of water not that long ago with the chlorine stench and the complete inability to move and the overwhelming certainty that he was going to die at the bottom of that pool and how desperately he tried to kick and fight but couldn’t move a single limb, lungs burning, eyes burning.

This isn’t like that at all.

This is very dark and very cold, but the cold has never made too much of an impact on him. And he sinks and this time he doesn’t move his limbs because he simply doesn’t want to. It’s just easier this way.

And he sinks, until he’s not sinking any more. He thinks in a daze he may have hit bottom, but that seems rather unlikely, until he realizes he’s not sinking because he’s now rising. He’s been hooked under his armpits and chest in a vice-like grip and he’s being yanked jerkily up and up and up. He’s also being kicked in the legs, hard, as he rises, but he still doesn’t really try to help in any way because he’s not quite sure what’s going on.

His head breaks the surface and he drags in a huge, wet, choking break on reflex and coughs and coughs as he’s being dragged and yanked backwards through the cold water towards the shore. Someone is breathing very heavily right near his ear, and there’s an arm clamped tight around his chest and he can’t stop coughing.

“What,” Stiles gasps. He’s lying on his back beside Derek on wet, cold stones and sand, sucking in huge, stuttering breaths and choking and coughing almost as much as Derek. “What. The fuck. Was that.”

Derek closes his eyes and breathes and breathes. His lungs feel like hot boulders and his head throbs, his brain swelling against his skull. He opens his eyes and dares to look at Stiles. Stiles is still splayed on his back, one arm thrown across his face, chest hitching. They’re all alone on the shore and it’s gone eerily quiet. No pack no witches. Just Derek and Stiles and the water lapping at their feet and the stony sand under their backs and air in their lungs.

“Stiles,” Derek says, but doesn’t know where to take the sentence.

Stiles struggles to sit then and it seems to take a considerable amount of effort. He sits and rests his arms over his knees and his head on his arms. 

“Derek,” he says. He sounds like he might be crying, but it also might be water in his lungs. He tries again. “What were you trying to do.”

“I. I don’t. I’m not.” Derek shakes his head. He honestly can’t remember for a moment what was happening. He doesn’t know how to answer Stiles. “I don’t know,” is all he can manage.

Stiles swipes out sideways with a curled fist that makes contact with Derek’s shoulder. It hits with a solid wet thwack. It hurts.

“You don’t know. You don’t _know_.” Stiles lifts his head and looks out at the lake. The water is still and flat and it’s so very quiet. His voice carries across to the distant shore, probably. Derek wonders if there’s anyone over there, listening, wondering, pondering this strange removed scene, this waterlogged pair battling in their way. “Well I know. I fucking know. I know exactly what you were trying to do. I knew it. I knew it last week and I knew it this morning and I knew it an hour ago. And I know it now.”

And of course Stiles knows these things. He’s always known things, especially when it comes to Derek. Derek doesn’t think about that too much right now. His head hurts too much anyway. He sits and shakes his head, wet hair sending droplets into the air, arcing over onto Stiles’ hands and face. This seems to galvanize him. He shifts over, moves right next to Derek, wraps his long, cold wet arms around Derek and pulls him into a tight, fierce hug. Derek lets him. They sit like that for a bit, Stiles’ fingers digging hard into Derek’s back and arm, until Derek can feel Stiles shaking from cold. Or something.

“You _scared_ me,” Stiles says. He _sounds_ scared, but he sounds angry, too. And bewildered and sad. And underneath all that, small. Very very small. “Please stop hurting yourself like that. Please.”

Derek manages to snake an arm across Stiles’ stomach and holds on with cold, aching fingers.

“Stiles?” His voice is soft and muffled and slightly strangled against Stiles’ chest. He can feel Stiles swallow, can feel him breathe, can feel him shaking.

“Yeah?” Stiles’ grip around Derek’s back tightens even more and it almost hurts but Derek never wants him to let go, ever.

“I’m not fine.”

“Yeah.” He feels Stiles exhale, long on a tremble, feels something on the top of his head, pushing down, thinks it might be Stiles’ mouth, because when he speaks next, there’s warm air that tickles his scalp.

“Yeah. I know.”

 

//

 

The literal meaning of life is whatever you’re doing that prevents you from killing yourself.  
_~ Albert Camus_

 

//

 

Her name is Dr. Foyer but she says, on his first visit, that Derek can call her Martha but he doesn’t call her anything at all. If he refers to her as anything in his personal time it’s Hedwig because she has three owl figurines on her desk and an owl poster on her wall.

Laura loved Harry Potter.

His first visit is…weird. He does more listening than talking, as Hedwig writes a lot of notes and asks a lot of questions:

“Have you ever been to counselling before?”

“No.”

“What do you think you’d like to get out of our sessions, if you continue?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are there some specific issues you’d like to address?”

Yes. “I don’t know.”

“Do you have any questions for me?”

Can you fix me? “None that I can think of right now.”

She tells Derek a bit about her professional background, what she specializes in, followed by session lengths and possible duration, privacy issues, and insurance claims, before sitting back and pausing.

“So Derek,” she says this at the 55-minute mark. “What do you think?”

Derek just stares at her. What does he think about _what_?”

She smiles kindly, taps her pencil on her yellow pad of paper. “Do you think you’d like to come back?”

Derek thinks about the weeks and months and years behind him. He thinks about his family and the old burnt out shell of his home. He thinks about his pack and how he didn’t even tell them where he was going today but they just stepped aside and watched him go, trusting that he’d return. He thinks about nightmares and 3am grocery outings and sleeping and not sleeping. He thinks about the woods and he thinks about his wolf. He thinks about white medicine cabinets and the bottom of a cold, dark lake, still and empty. He thinks about strong, sure hands wrapped around him and pulling him up and out, head above the surface, and a panicked heartbeat thudding against his cheek.

Does he want to come back?

Yes, he nods. Yes, he does.

 

//

 

After his third appointment he walks down the stone steps from Hedwig’s office in a slight daze, squinting against very early spring sunshine, spilling weak and thready through still bare tree branches, to find Stiles and his Jeep waiting for him.

Derek wonders briefly if Stiles just happens to be here, in this exact spot at this exact time by happy accident, but then shakes his head and smiles down at the sidewalk, because no. That’s not how Stiles operates at all, is it. The window is down and Derek leans in a bit. Stiles stinks of nerves and adrenaline, long fingers tapping a rapid beat on the steering wheel, knee jumping up and down in syncopated spasms.

“Hey,” Stiles says, draws it out, like it’s just a coincidence, a serendipitous meeting with no reason or meaning.

“Hey,” Derek says, resting his forearms on the window sill.

“So,” Stiles says, quick, like he might lose his nerve or Derek might just walk away, “I was thinking.” He blows out a long breath, eyes skipping back and forth between Derek and Hedwig’s office door. “Is this gonna be the regular time for your appointments? Cuz if it is, I can like, drive you. You know, pick you up from wherever and drive you home. Or wherever you go after. If you want. I could totally do that.”

This is not at all what Derek was expecting to hear. He was expecting Stiles to start grilling him on what he and the doctor were talking about, and offering his own pithy bits of wisdom, rushing home to research whatever suggestions she was making and probably debunking them within the hour. He honestly doesn’t know how to respond.

“You wouldn’t even have to talk or anything,” Stiles barrels on. “To me, I mean. Total silence. Just music. Or not. Whatever. Or you _could_ talk, if you wanted. About anything. The weather. Football. We could eat! Spilling your guts makes you wanna fill them up with food right after, in case you hadn’t noticed yet.”

He waits. Anxiety spikes.

“Why?” Derek finally says.

Stiles shrugs. He’s having a hard time making eye contact. 

“Stiles.” Derek leans forward a bit. Stiles glances at him.

“What.”

“ _Why_.”

Stiles shrugs again, heaves a sigh, looks out the dirty windshield. “Does there have to be a reason?”

Derek waits. The silence between them is thick and heavy. Derek doesn’t know what he’s waiting for exactly, but he can play this game as long as Stiles. Longer.

“I just want to, ok?” Stiles says this quietly, like an admission, like it’s something he could be embarrassed about, but it’s not embarrassment Derek scents. Or pity. It’s empathy.

“ _Stiles_.”

“You’re not the only person. You’re not.” Stiles takes a breath. “I’ve been here, ok. I’ve been where you are, not exactly, of course, but you know. In a bad place. A dark place, where nothing makes sense and getting up and getting dressed and eating and sleeping and leaving the house and all of it. Nothing matters.” He finally looks at Derek and his eyes are wet. “It’s nice to know you’re not alone, when you’re in that place.” He pauses. Then, voice very small and unsure, “Isn’t it?”

Derek swallows a few times like he’s going to say something but finds he has absolutely nothing he can say that will adequately express what he’s feeling. So he nods and reaches over to take Stiles’ hand off the steering wheel. It takes some effort to unclench it. Then he threads their fingers together and holds on for dear life.

 

//

 

He’s never talked so much in his entire life, even before the fire, even before he lost everything. He surprises himself by the flow of words that fall out of his mouth, uncensored. Once he gets going he can’t seem to stop and Hedwig just listens and nods and asks questions and makes the odd comment and encouraging noises and empathetic expressions and scribbles in her notes and Derek can’t stop. Doesn’t want to stop.

And neither does Stiles, apparently.

At the six-week mark, Stiles hands him a bottle as soon as he gets in the Jeep. He’s worn out, worn to the bone, teeth on edge and everything grating together. It was a hard session, harder than usual. He doesn’t want to talk ever again. He’s considering learning sign language or resorting to grunts and growls for the rest of his life.

He takes the cool, silver bottle and stares at it. Stiles clears his throat. Derek can suddenly sense waves of anxiety rolling off him.

“It’s an anti-depressant specifically for supernatural beings,” Stiles says, talking fast. “I saw the prescription for Zoloft at the house. Not filled. Not filled, obviously, because regular human type anti-depressants have no effect on werewolf physiology, duh. But Hedwig doesn’t know that so.” He takes a deep breath. “I had this made for you. Well a friend of mine did. He’s taking supernatural healing courses and he built up a big following, lots of devoted clients. It can help with depression. Specifically werewolf depression. You can try it, if you want. If not, that’s ok too. But if it works, if you find it helps, I can get more.” He pauses, wipes his palms on the thighs of his jeans up and down. “If you want.”

Derek raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“It’s totally safe, I swear. I mean, I was a bit wary too, but I did some pretty heavy-duty research—”

Of course he did. This _boy_.

“—and it’s all legit, and proven, and his clients — a ton of them are werewolves, by the way so yeah, they _do_ get depressed, just so you know — all swear by it. I can send you his website link if you want. If you don’t believe me. And I printed out my research, it’s right here, actually—” and he starts digging in his bag — “It’s a combination of 5-HTP, you know, for the serotonins, mixed with some S-adenosyl methionine, and then a bunch of, like ‘magical’ properties, so it’s works on you dudes. He calls is _Beatus Lupum_.” On Derek’s eye roll, Stiles laughs. “Yeah the name needs work, he knows, but it’s what he’s going with for now.” He pauses, hand shoved into his backpack. “I’d never put you at risk, yeah? You know that, right?”

He’s actually breathing a bit hard.

Derek looks at him. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but lately, with anything to do with Stiles, words fail him.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes I know that. Of course I do.” Duh. “I’ll try it. Yes.” He pauses. “Thank you.” He manages a smile, a genuine one.

Stiles _grins_.

And so it goes.

One month. Two months. Three months. Derek just assumed Stiles’ offer would last a few weeks at most and then gradually but inevitably peter off, but like everything else about him, he just keeps surprising. When he’s done classes for the day, Stiles picks Derek up and drives him downtown to the office. Then he waits in his Jeep for an hour, reading, doing homework, listening to the radio and jiggling his knee, thumping the steering wheel, until Derek emerges, spent and worn, sometimes red-eyed and stuffed up, sometimes cold and angry.

Stiles always offers to stop somewhere for food, or coffee. Sometimes Derek agrees, but mostly he shakes his head and they drive home. Sometimes, once in a while, Derek suggests a longer drive and Stiles nods and takes them on back routes for half an hour, an hour, the radio playing quietly, as trees and houses pass by. Derek watching them unseeing, his mind a jumble of words and memories, all tangled up together.

He takes his potion every day and when he finishes the bottle he asks Stiles for more. Stiles bites back and smile and nods and says yeah, sure, of course.

“Is it. Do you think it’s.”

“Yeah,” Derek says and finds he means it. “Yeah. It’s helping.”

As the season turns, the air is lighter and the sun is out longer and there’s no more early darkness for Derek to hide under. And he hasn’t felt the need in weeks.

 

//

 

The best things in life make you sweaty.  
_~ Edgar Allan Poe_

 

//

 

Lately, he finds himself doing things just because he wants to.

One completely ordinary warm, spring afternoon he feels like running, so he does.

One late spring evening he feels like baking bread with fresh rosemary from the herbs on the windowsill, so he does. He waits for it to cool and slices it and shares it with the entire pack.

One night he gets into bed and falls asleep and stays asleep the entire night, no bad dreams, no panic attacks, no sweating into twisted sheets.

He bathes. He eats. He talks. He tries very very hard to not hurt himself and he mostly succeeds.

Lately, he doesn’t feel quite so bad.

 

//

 

“It’s not a _party_ , Derek.” Stiles feels like he’s said this six times now. “It’s just a gathering. A small friendly gathering of friends — mine _and_ yours — here in my house. That’s it.”

It’s mid-July and Derek has been in therapy for five months. He’s down to one appointment a week and is holding steady on the _Beatus Lupum_. Stiles has decided to celebrate this milestone with food and games and alcohol and food. He dragged Derek along to the dollar store for paper plates and napkins (We’re not _animals_!), and then to the grocery store (In broad daylight!) for frozen burgers, hot dogs, buns, cases of soda and about 74 bags of chips, some of them even _name brand_ (Nothing’s too good for Pack!). Derek has to buy the beer, though, which he does, grudgingly, with Stiles promising to collect money from everyone tonight to help pay him back.

By 7pm the Stilinski house is filled with more people than Derek was expecting, but surprisingly, it’s not as horrible as he was anticipating. The pack is all there, which helps immensely, and they seem to rotate hanging out with him, Scott and Erica and Boyd, Isaac and even Allison and Lydia wander by, perch on the arm of the chair where he has ensconced himself with a bottle of beer he’s barely touched, chatting with him about nothing in particular. Stiles has also invited high school friends, lacrosse teammates, and boyfriends and girlfriends have tagged along as well. People come and go and the house never seems to full or too overwhelming. The Sheriff has commandeered the barbecue, cooking every last piece of meat and piling it high on the kitchen table, before he waves good-bye and heads out with stern warnings to the Designated Drivers, both werewolf and otherwise, about making sure everyone gets home safely, and for anyone who needs it, to feel free to sleep on the floors or couches, but not before clapping a warm hand on Derek’s shoulder and leaning down close.

“Glad to see you here, Derek.” And Derek nods and smiles and finds himself fighting back sudden tears.

There’s music blasting from somewhere, and people are talking and laughing and there’s a pretty intense card game taking place around the living room coffee table. It might be poker, but Derek’s not entirely sure. It’s an entertaining show, though.

Stiles comes and goes throughout the night, collecting empty plates and cups, refilling the coolers with drinks, laughing at jokes and hugging friends. Every time though, every single time he appears he finds Derek first, catches his eye, smiles, cocks his head like he’s checking: Everything ok? You all right? And Derek smiles and nods back because everything is ok and he is all right. He even gets roped into a raucous round of beer pong, he and Lydia against Scott and Allison and he lets Lydia hug him around the neck when they win.

When he gets too hot and his senses too filled with scents and sound, he switches his beer for iced tea and wanders into the backyard which is, at the moment, is blessedly empty. It’s late and a lot of people have already left. The core group of card players are still going strong and there’s a baseball game playing on the living room TV and Derek thinks he should head home, but Stiles drove him here and Derek’s not sure he wants to leave anyway.

He sips his iced tea and looks around the small backyard. Stiles has strung fairy lights along the top of the fence and in the gathering summer darkness with the green leaves and the sweet air and the music playing behind him, it’s all so beautiful he wants to cry. He can’t remember the last time he cried when he wasn’t miserable or angry or frustrated.

He’s lying on his back in the cool grass staring up at the sky when Stiles finds him, nudges his hip with the toe of his sneaker, smiles down at him, soft and gentle, like the two of them have a secret no one else knows.

“There you are,” Stiles says.

Derek tucks his chin into his chest and smiles. “You knew where I was. You always know.”

Stiles smiles and shrugs. “Yeah. It’s a talent of mine, I guess.” He pauses. “Do you mind?”

“Never.”

Stiles keeps looking at him. “You ok?”

Derek nods. “Yeah. It’s nice out here.”

Stiles nods and flops down beside him, close enough to touch, but not touching. They stare up at the sky in companionable silence, music from inside floating out over them. Stiles hums along tunelessly, fingers tapping against the grass.

“Tonight was…ok,” Derek says because he’s trying hard to express himself, to express gratitude for the people in his life and things they do.

Stiles turns his head and _grins_. “Really? Good. Good. I’m glad.”

“Dr….Martha— _Hedwig_ will be pretty shocked when I tell her on Monday, I think.”

Stiles nods and rolls over suddenly and throws an arm around Derek, hugging him painfully tight.

“What?” Derek is amused. He tries to work an arm up to hug Stiles back but Stiles has a lock on him and he’s not letting go.

“I’m just. I’m really proud. Of you.” He says this into Derek’s shoulder so the words are muffled but Derek hears him just fine.

“You’re what?”

Stiles pulls back just enough to free his lips, but his hand is still clenched, bunched into the shoulder of Derek’s shirt. Stiles clears his throat and stares at Derek’s chin.

“Proud. I’m proud of you. I know how fucking hard therapy is, yeah. Self-reflection, personal growth, opening up old wounds, yada yada.” He glances up at Derek, expression a little shy, a little saucy. “Basically just _talking_ , in your case.”

Derek rolls his eyes but blushes, too.

“So yeah. I just think you should hear that. That it’s hard and painful and exhausting but you did it. You’re doing it. Whatever. So. Good job, there.” He goes to pull his arm away and before Derek can second-guess himself he rolls on his side, too, puts an arm around Stiles and pulls him in close, as close as he can. Stiles makes a little _oomph_ noise and stiffens a bit in surprise before he relaxes, sort of melting into Derek, his hand sliding against his back and spreading wide and warm.

Derek tries to remember the last time anyone said he was proud of him for anything. Probably not since his family died, because who the hell says they’re proud of you besides your parents? No one. Except Stiles, apparently. And Hedwig. But she’s supposed to say things like that. That’s what Derek was paying her for.

But Stiles?

“Thank you,” Derek says into the side of Stiles’ head, lips brushing just lightly against the tip of his ear.

“For what?”

Jesus. Where to start?

“I think I want to kiss you,” Derek says instead, surprising himself. It’s not surprising that he wants to do it, but the fact that he’s admitted it to Stiles kind of bowls him over. Derek is just full of surprises these days it seems. Stiles raises his eyebrows and bites his bottom lip and smiles a little.

“You _think_? Or—”

“I know,” Derek says, firm. “I know I want to kiss you.” He pauses, cheeks heating. “I mean, if you want, as well. I’d like to kiss you but only if you also want to kiss—”

Stiles leans forward and kisses him.

Derek pushes back, leans up on an elbow so he’s hovering over Stiles, looking down at his beautiful face. The grass is cool and a bit prickly under the fabric of his shirt. He leans down and kisses Stiles again, slower and longer, soft and wondering until Stiles’ breath catches in his throat and his fingers and curled hard into Derek’s back. Derek’s always liked kissing, kissing without it having to lead to anything else, and he likes kissing Stiles a lot because Stiles’ mouth is like nothing he’s ever encountered before. The shape, the texture, his tongue and teeth, his breath hot against Derek’s cheek, the tiny unmistakeable movements of Stiles’ hips against his. So this kissing might actually be the kind that does lead to something else after all. Derek pulls back a bit, surprised to find himself out of breath, too.

“I think— I _want_ to touch you, too. Is that ok?”

Stiles glances at the back door of the house, listens to the noises inside, shouts from the poker players, the drone of the baseball game, and he nods, frantically. Yes yes yes it’s ok.

Derek kisses Stiles’ ears, bites down a bit on his lobes, licks at the sides of his neck down to his collarbones while Stiles chews so hard on his lower lip Derek is afraid it’ll bleed. He pushes Stiles’ T-shirt up so he can kiss his ribs, lick at his nipples, press his face into the softest part of his stomach while Stiles’ hitches and groans in the back of his throat.

“Derek…jesus.”

Derek reaches the waistband of Stiles’ jeans and considers for a minute. But it’s summer and it’s beautiful and warm in the backyard and there are _fairy lights_ and even if someone came to the door to look outside so what. He smiles against Stiles’ hip, fumbles with the button and fly and pushes his jeans down, nuzzles against the hardness of Stiles’ dick and now Stiles is barely holding back his groans, head twisting from side to side and one hand finding the top of Derek’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. Derek pushes his underwear down too, just far enough, and inhales deeply.

“Derek. Fuck. Seriously.” Stiles’ fingers pull hard and Derek smiles, takes a long lick up his length and then swallows him down. It’s been a long, long time since he’s done this but it’s so easy with Stiles and he feels so good in his mouth. He grips Stiles’ hip to hold him still but it’s difficult because Stiles’ is close already, twitching and hitching, head thrown back and neck long and pale. The air smells like grass and barbecue and _Stiles_ and Derek takes one more strong suck before Stiles is coming hard, a long low groan in his throat arching and then falling. He pants, covers his mouth with one hand and shakes his head.

“Holy shit.” He scrubs a hand over his face and sucks in a breath. “Come here. Come here come here come—”

He pulls Derek up towards him and kisses him slow and sloppy, lots of tongue, hand stroking through his hair over and over while the other hand works his way down to Derek’s pants, deftly opening them and shoving them down with jerky movements until Derek’s dick is free, hard and hot in Stiles’ hand. Derek realizes Stiles’ is using his own come as lubricant and that thought alone has him rising and cresting and tumbling back down with a shout against Stiles’ neck faster and more intensely than he can ever recall.

“That,” he says into Stiles’ sweaty collarbone. “That was.”

“Yeah.” Stiles says, laughing. “Yeah. I know.” He kisses the top of Derek’s head, his hairline, his damp forehead again and again until there’s a banging on the glass of the back door and a lot of yelling and laughter and whoops and hollers and Derek yanks up their jeans and rolls on top of Stiles and kisses him right back.

 

//

 

After everything, the final showdown with the witch is a bit of an anticlimax.

Stiles sits bolt upright in his bed at 3am, rousing Derek from a deep, dreamless sleep. They’ve been very quiet, because the Sheriff is home and while he and Stiles have had a “talk,” Derek still feels uncomfortable spending the night. But lately the combination of a warm, sated Stiles in his arms and a good night’s sleep is too much to pass up.

But now Stiles is sweating and wild-eyed, fingers clutching his sheets and Derek sits up too, rubs his bare, trembling back and asks him what’s wrong.

“They’re back,” Stiles says. “The witches. They’re back. Fuck.”

Fuck, indeed.

Derek briefly entertains the thought of heading into the woods to hunt them down and end this once and for all, but the witches end up coming to them. Well, one witch. Derek and Stiles are alone in front of Derek’s house, debating whether to order in or head to the pizza place that Stiles loves and Derek swears gives him diarrhea when she’s just there, his witch, Dagger Hurler. They stand there staring at each other until she smiles and speaks.

“Oh Derek.” She looks at him in wonder. “You’re not dead. You’re supposed to be dead. And there’s your little human who keeps saving you.” She cocks her head.

“What do you want?” Stiles asks. Derek can hear his heartbeat thundering in his chest. 

“Oh, nothing from you,” she says. “He and I though—” she juts her chin at Derek, “—have unfinished business, don’t we?” She smiles again. “Your Alpha is very sad and very tired, and everyone knows a pack without an effective leader is much easier to control and conquer. Derek just needs a rest. A long, long rest.” She beckons to him and Derek has a flash of memory, a moment of blackness when he remembers with absolute clarity the journey to the bottom of the lake, the ice cold water seeping into his lungs and the floating and the peace, and how easy it all was. But, then there was Stiles. And now Stiles is looking at him like he knows exactly what’s happening and exactly what Derek is thinking and his face twists.

Stiles actually _screams_ something that sounds a lot like _You fucking bitch_ and goes on the defensive, charging towards her and what the fuck Stiles. Derek watches it happen in slow motion because he can’t actually believe what he’s seeing. The witch flicks a lazy finger and Stiles goes flying somewhere to the left, tumbling in the dirt, hard, hitting the trunk of a tree with a thud and a yelp. Derek _roars_ and that gets her attention all right but Derek’s learned his lesson with this one and he’s made promises to not hurt himself on purpose, but this is an exceptional circumstance, he thinks.

He moves to attack, but with another flick of her hand he gets thrown, too, and he realizes as he hits the ground and tumbles that Stiles is still prone and moaning quietly, cradling his arm and that’s all it takes. Derek reaches down into his boot and pulls out the weapon he’s been carrying since Stiles made his middle-of-the night proclamation. He manages to stand and he takes careful aim and whips the silver dagger, the one that nearly killed him a year ago, and it hits its mark, embedded in her side, right to the hilt. Now she’s the one screaming and Derek has to clap his hands over his ears and crouch down in pain. She screams and screams, twisting and turning like a mini black tornado, spinning in a frenzy until she’s dust on the ground. Then the wind picks up and she’s blown away, and it’s over.

“Good job,” Stiles says, struggling to sit. “You did it. They’ll be gone by sunset.”

“That’s it?” Derek says, blinking. He’s not disappointed, but he’s surprised. “What about the rest of them?”

“She was the leader,” Stiles mumbles. “Their Alpha, so to speak. Now that she’s gone, they’ll move on. I did a shit ton of research about covens, so I’m fairly confident when I say this—”

“Yes, yes. I believe you. Completely. Without a packet of papers or handwritten notes or anything.” Derek carefully helps him to his feet and they hobble into the house.

Derek painstakingly dabs at the gouge on Stiles’ elbow, the scrape down his forearm, the two thin scratches across his left cheek. He works silently and methodically, gently, engrossed in the process, but he feels Stiles’ eyes on him the entire time, and when he leans close enough, the light flutter of Stiles’ breath against his skin. He’s pretty proud of himself when he’s done, when everything is sterilized and bandaged because his hands hardly trembled at all.

“Thanks,” Stiles says. Then, “Your turn.”

Derek is already starting to heal, but Stiles goes through the motions anyway and Derek isn’t going to argue, not now. They’re quiet under the yellow bathroom light, the stink of rubbing alcohol sharp in Derek’s nose. He stands still and weary as Stiles moves around him, wiping and dabbing, fingers sure and mostly steady. He tries not to notice when those fingers brush against the skin of his back or shoulder or stomach. He tries very hard.

“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to do this anymore,” Stiles says finally. He doesn’t sound mad, exactly, but he’s not happy either. He’s standing behind Derek when he says it, so Derek can’t see his expression but he can pretty much imagine what it looks like. Puzzled. Bottom lip caught between his teeth. Gaze honed in on whatever wound is going on back there.

“It was different this time,” is all Derek says, which is the truth, so his voice is quiet and calm.

“Different how?” Stiles’ hands have stilled, fingertips resting on the bottom of Derek’s back, on the bumps of his spine.

“Because this time I didn’t want to get hurt.” Derek pauses, tries to gather the tendrils of his thoughts together to make sense, to make Stiles understand. It’s important. “This time it was. Reflex. Instinctual. Because you were in danger.” Stiles’ fingers twitch on Derek’s skin. “But I was aware. I was present. I calculated the risk and paid attention to what was happening so both of us would be safe.” He takes a breath and turns around, waits until Stiles is looking right at him, blinking in the weird bathroom light. “Because as much as I don’t want you to get hurt, ever, I don’t want to get hurt either. Because.” He licks his lips. “I care about what happens to me, too. And if I get hurt, I can’t.” He breathes. “I’m no help to myself, or anyone else. The people I care about. And love. And. I can’t be with you, if I’m damaged.”

Stiles nods, satisfied but Derek leans down to kiss him, once, softly, just to be sure.

 

//

 

What the fuck are we all doing here?  
_~ Unknown_

 

//

 

It’s late August and there’s a barbecue in the McCall’s spacious backyard. School starts in a week and this calls for the last get-together of the summer. Scott and Allison, Lydia and Isaac are all heading out of State for different schools and different lives. Stiles has been accepted everywhere he’s applied but he’s staying local, criminology at Beacon U because he wants to.

Derek had crossed his arms and looked skeptical when Stiles had announced his decision and Stiles had crossed _his_ arms and glared right back.

“You’re not going to stay here just to _babysit_ me.”

“No, no I’m not,” Stiles said. “One, because you don’t need babysitting and two, this is my decision for me. I’ve done a shit ton of research about this program—”

Of course he had. Why had Derek thought any different.

“—and BHU offers the absolute best combination of everything I want. I can show you my printouts if you don’t believe me—”

“I believe you.”

“I’ve made charts and everything. Statistics. Graphs.”

“I have no doubt.”

“Besides.” Here Stiles took a deep breath, uncrossed his arms and sagged a bit. “I know me. I know myself. I know that I need, for me, to stay close to this place. To my dad. To the familiar things that keep me grounded.” He glanced up. “And yes, that now includes you, too. I know myself and I trust myself and I know moving thousands of miles away wouldn’t be…good. For _me_.”

Stiles hasn’t shared a lot about his mental health history with Derek over the past year and Derek hasn’t pried. But now, now that he’s in the place he’s in, he wants to start. He wants to ask and he wants Stiles to share. He wants to be the one, now, that Stiles can lean on, too. Because that’s what being in love is, he supposes.

“Ok?” Stiles said, defiant and vulnerable at once.

“Ok,” Derek said, smiling, opening his arms, pulling him in and hugging him so tight Stiles made a squeaky noise and poked Derek in the ribs, hard.

Now, as the party rages on around him, he thinks about other things Stiles has said to him, because they talk about a lot of things, and Derek likes to talk almost as much as Stiles does.

“Why?” Derek said a few weeks ago, in the middle of a hot and heavy make-out session, his hand down the front of Stiles’ pants and Stiles’ lips on his neck. “Why me?”

Stiles didn’t complain or roll his eyes or laugh or anything. He just held out his hand and started counting on his ridiculous fingers. “You’re brave, you’re loyal, you’re kind even though you try to hide it, you’re smart but sometimes you make really dumb decisions, you’re gorgeous, but I’m not that shallow, because you’re also stupidly sweet and sweetly shy and—”

Derek smiled and went right back to kissing him.

And just the other day, as they lay naked and sweating on Stiles’ bed, breath punched out of them: They’d been discussing the Meaning of Life right before Derek had pounced on him, kissing him silent, hands up under his T-shirt, skimming tight, hot skin and nipples. Then after, Stiles continued on like they’d never been interrupted.

“Besides,” he said, wiping a bead of sweat from the corner of his eye. “You’re looking at it all wrong, anyway.

“How so?”

Stiles rolled his head to the left a bit, smiled slow and quiet and lazy. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead. There was a bruise on his collarbone and teeth marks on his neck. He was so beautiful Derek had to look away. “There is no meaning to life, Derek. Like, no external meaning, anyway.” He touched Derek’s chin with his long fingers and made him look. “You have to bring meaning to it. You. You make it mean something.” And he kissed Derek so hard it hurt.

An enthusiastic water balloon fight has been taking place for the past hour and Derek has called a personal time out, sore and exhausted and he sits finally, wet and exhilarated, in a webbed lawn chair at the edge of the yard. The battle rages on. He watches Scott tackle Stiles, dump a tub full of water over his head, watches Stiles in mock anger chase him until they both fall in the wet, slippery grass, mud streaked, laughing. Stiles lies flat on his back, gasping for breath as Scott, with his werewolf stamina, leaps up and runs away, chasing after Allison and Isaac. When Stiles finally catches his breath he sits up and looks around, looks for Derek immediately. When he finds him he softens, and smiles, wide and open and so full of fondness that Derek’s breath catches in his chest. This this this, he thinks. This is what makes it complete. It’s him finding his peace and finding his place and finding his way back to these people, and this person in particular. It’s not perfect, because nothing is, but _this_. In this moment he thinks, it’s going to be ok. He tilts his head and smiles, watches as Stiles struggles to stand, shakes out his wet hair, bright and gleaming droplets in the late afternoon summer sun. He pulls at his soaked T-shirt, takes the bottom in his hands and wrings it out, water streaming down onto his feet, and it’s just so ridiculous and so simple and easy and it’s so _Stiles_ that Derek’s heart swells and he just can’t help it, because. Because Scott is sneaking up behind him with another tub of water ready for another dousing and because it’s warm and there’s hot dogs and because there’s Stiles and because lately Derek hasn’t been feeling fine. Lately he’s been feeling kind of good.

He throws back his head and lets himself laugh, just because.

 

//


End file.
